


You Are Surrounding All My Surroundings

by Moriartied



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Feelings, Friends With Benefits, M/M, idk what these tags are, there is angst and stuff, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 12:39:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moriartied/pseuds/Moriartied
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: "Stiles/Jackson, friends with benefits and one of them developed ~feelings, and angst and shit?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Are Surrounding All My Surroundings

**Author's Note:**

> Um, somehow this ended up being from Stiles’ POV. I hadn’t really intended that when I thought out the plot, so I hope it still works.
> 
> Also what are titles. I've just been using song lyrics. And this is my favorite song of the moment. Idek if it relates. Whatever.

You could call it friends with benefits, except they weren’t even really friends. In fact they both kind of hated each other. Enemies with benefits would be more fitting. But labels didn’t really matter when Jackson had Stiles pinned up against the wall of the locker room, pants down around their ankles, Stiles biting down hard on the back of his hand to keep from crying out as Jackson slammed into him over and over, Jackson mumbling unintelligibly into Stiles’ ear and reaching around to jack him off.

The first time had been a surprise to both of them. They’d been fighting over something ridiculous, probably Scott related, and Jackson had started throwing punches, nearly wolfing out. Stiles, who had pretty much zero regard for his own health and safety, had lunged at Jackson, catching him off guard and managing to knock him backwards into a wall, at which point they’d both frozen, bodies pressed together. Stiles stared open mouthed at Jackson as he felt the other boy’s erection pressing into his thigh, inches below his own half hard cock. Jackson held Stiles’ gaze, eyebrows raised, as if daring him to react. Which he did. He pulled back, flustered, looking down at the ground as heat rose to his cheeks. He turned around, not saying anything, to walk determinedly away from Jackson, and was completely surprised when he felt Jackson’s arms around his waist, dragging him back.

“What are you--?” Stiles sputtered, spinning around to face Jackson with wide eyes that quickly narrowed at the hungry expression on Jackson’s face. “Oh no,” he said shaking his head with his mouth scrunched into a defiant frown. “This is so not happening.”

And then Jackson’s hand was on his cock, squeezing a little harder than necessary, and all of Stiles’ resolve flew out the window because _jesus christ_ did that feel good, and before he knew it he was the one pressed up against the wall as Jackson massaged his crotch and leaned his head in to suck roughly at Stiles’ neck, leaving a bruise and bite marks. “You want me,” Jackson rasped, his other hand moving to undo Stiles’ belt buckle. And all Stiles could do was nod as his head dropped back against the wall and he canted his hips into Jackson’s hand.

Jackson grinned, amused, and pressed into Stiles, yanking down his jeans. Stiles gasped as his cock sprung free of the constraints of his pants. Jackson smirked, diving his hand into Stiles’ batman boxers, which he was _so_ regretting wearing right now. He came embarrassingly quickly at Jackson’s deft strokes, sinking back against the wall and gasping.

Suddenly they heard footsteps in the hall. “Stiles?” They both whipped around at Scott’s voice, and Stiles scrambled to pull up his jeans. Jackson glared towards the door, then back at Stiles. “You owe me,” he snarled, and Stiles nodded fervently as he zipped up his pants. He shoved Jackson back towards the showers, silencing his protests with a look and then heading towards the door to meet Scott, running his fingers through his tousled hair and checking himself in the mirror to make sure he didn’t look like he’d just had sex with Jackson freakin’ Whittemore—not that Scott would notice anyway, since he was honest to god the most oblivious person on the face of the planet—and the opened the door. “Hey buddy, how’s it going?” he asked, feigning nonchalance.

Scott cocked his head for a moment, and then shrugged, before launching into some melodramatic tirade about Allison.

And that was how it started.

There were no emotions, nothing beyond the sex, for god’s sake they didn’t even talk aside from the occasional grunts of “fuck” or “good” or, even more rarely, each other’s names. They’d never even discussed their arrangement. They just fell into a rhythm. Whenever one of them was horny, they went down to the locker room and waited. If the other joined them, they fucked, if not, no sweat, they just went about their day. It worked for them.

At first they’d both been thinking of other people when they fucked. Stiles thought about Derek. Or sometimes Scott. Jackson thought about Danny. It was easy to pretend when there was no talking, no cuddling afterwards, no vulnerability. But somewhere along the line, they’d both stopped thinking about anyone else.

Jackson liked how Stiles’ waist tapered into his hips, creating the perfect resting place for his hands when he thrust into him from behind. Stiles liked the way Jackson’s muscles tightened when he raked his nails down his back. Jackson liked Stiles’ soft lips, and how they looked wrapped around his cock. And Stiles liked that Jackson didn’t yell insults at him anymore in the halls or on the lacrosse field.

The others started to notice it. None of them figured it out, but it’s clear they’ve seen a change in both Stiles and Jackson. Scott commented that Stiles was far less hung up on Lydia than usual, while Lydia casually mentioned that Stiles seemed more confident, hesitating for a moment before adding that this didn’t mean anything, even though Stiles’ mind hadn’t even gone there. Danny pointed out one night after a lacrosse game that Jackson seemed happier, to which the other boy gave a half-hearted snappy reply. But it was true. Something about Stiles was having that effect on Jackson.

One day, about three months after that first day in the locker room, Jackson was sitting on the bench, restringing his lacrosse stick. He heard the door squeak open behind him but didn’t turn around as Stiles came closer. He kept his focus on the stick, and Stiles sat down next to him. “You okay?” the other boy asked. Jackson nodded curtly. “‘M fine,” he said, eyes cast downward. Stiles shrugged. “If you don’t want to, I can just go,” he said. Jackson’s hands stilled on the stick, “No. I’m here aren’t I?” To which Stiles shrugged again. Jackson let the stick drop to the floor as he stood up, yanking his sweater over his head. He undid his jeans and then looked at Stiles expectantly. The other boy dropped to his knees, tugging down Jackson’s pants and boxer briefs and wrapping his long fingers around his cock, stroking a few times before bringing it to his mouth.

 Jackson glanced down at Stiles who was looking up at him with wide brown eyes, lips stretched around his throbbing cock. Their eyes met, and Jackson had to look away, hand going to Stiles’ forehead to push him away before staggering back. Stiles, surprised, reeled back and landed on his ass, glaring at Jackson with a mix of indignance and confusion. Jackson just shook his head, hastily pulling up his pants. “I can’t do this anymore,” he said, grabbing his stick and his pads and shoving them in his bag. He refrained from making eye contact with Stiles as he fled from the locker room, leaving Stiles sitting on the cold tile floor.

Jackson stayed away from the locker room for the next week. Stiles knew, because he checked every single day. Then finally, almost two weeks later, he was there again, sitting on the bench, staring at the ground. Stiles was surprised by the sense of relief he felt. In the last two weeks, Jackson had gone back to his usual douchey self, maybe even more so. Stiles had borne the brunt of most of his insults, and painful shoves during practice. He had convinced himself that he had done something wrong, which had translated into an even higher level of sarcasm and snark, fueling Jackson’s apparent anger. He was pretty sure whatever they had was over, and almost as sure that it was his fault. So he hadn’t expected to see Jackson there, twisting his hands in his lap, lips pressed in a firm line.

He tentatively sat down on the bench, leaving a large gap of space between them. Again he asked, “You okay?” The last thing he expected was the slow shake of Jackson’s head, and the bloodshot eyes that turned to look up at him. Stiles swallowed, hating the broken look in Jackson’s eyes and the guilt that was boiling up inside him because now he knew for sure that he had done something wrong.

“What did I do?” he asked. Jackson laughed, but it was a dull hollow sound that didn’t sound right coming from him. Then he crossed his arms over his chest, turning towards Stiles.

“You didn’t do anything. But this isn’t working.”

Stiles frowned. He’d thought it was working quite nicely, up until Jackson had abruptly walked out on him.

“So if I didn’t do anything, then you had to have done something,” Stiles pointed out, emphasizing the ‘you’ by stabbing his finger at Jackson, who narrowed his eyes.

“Or maybe it was just a stupid idea to start with,” Jackson shot back.

Stiles started at him for a beat and then sat back, shrugging. “Or that,” he said, looking down, resting his elbows on his knees, and his chin on his hands. When he heard Jackson’s sharp intake of breath, he glanced up again, sideways. Jackson stayed silent for a moment before speaking.

“We both want other people,” he said quietly, taking a breath before continuing, “We both want other people, and it’s not right—it’s not fair—to keep doing this. So we should stop.” He said it almost like he was trying to convince himself.

Stiles didn’t know what to say, so he went with humor, because that’s what he was best at. “We could. Or we could forget about everything you just said and I could blow you. Or I could blow you and make you forget about everything you just said.”

But Jackson just shook his head. “I can’t. Okay? So just go. And we can forget we ever had a thing, or whatever this was.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Oh this was definitely a thing,” he said, but he pushed himself up from the bench, prepared to leave Jackson with his thoughts. Until he turned and saw the glassy wetness in Jackson’s eyes that he was desperately trying to blink away. He froze. The image just didn’t compute in his brain. Jackson Whittemore crying. It was pretty much the last thing he’d ever expected to see in his life.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked down at Jackson. “Oh.” He said, like he suddenly understood everything.

Jackson glared up at him, furrowing his brows in anger. “ _Oh_?”

Stiles sighed, sitting back down on the bench. “I’m not as stupid as you seem to think I am,” he said, hands gripping the edge on the bench and squeezing as he gnawed the inside of his lip.

“Oh.” Jackson swallowed hard.

Stiles turned to scrutinize Jackson who was determinedly not meeting his eyes. He took a breath “So…”

Jackson shook his head. “So, you should go now.” He said, trying to sound annoyed, but his voice was tinged with pain.

Stiles let out a snort of laughter, “Since when have I ever followed orders?” he made no move to get up from the bench, still staring at Jackson, who had returned to examining his hands. It all made sense now. Jackson had fallen for him, and honestly who could blame him, and he thought that Stiles didn’t feel the same way, that Stiles was still harboring feelings for Derek, or Scott, or Lydia, or whoever else he thought of when they had sex. Stiles almost laughed out loud at how freakin’ hilarious that was, because he had long since shifted his affections to Jackson. Which, until now, was something he thought he could never say aloud, and had pretty much pushed it out of his consciousness, a problem to deal with on another day. Apparently that day was today.

He reached his hand back to scratch the back of his neck. “If you, uh, wanted to try to make this a thing, I’d be down,” he said finally. Because he didn’t want to sound too eager, but he needed to get that out there for Jackson. He really hated seeing the boy struggle this much with his emotions, since he knew this was a foreign concept for him. Stiles on the other hand, was pretty much a pro at falling in love. Though he’d really never expected Jackson to ever be the object of his desires. When he really thought about it, it made sense, maybe. Jackson was an emotionally constipated jackass, who deep down just wanted someone to love him. Stiles liked being that—the person who loved the unlovable. It was kind of his weakness.

Jackson took a deep breath and huffed it out through his nose. “Yeah?” he asked.

Stiles nodded.

Tension drained from Jackson’s shoulders as he finally met Stiles’ gaze. “You won’t tell anybody though, right? About us?”

 “Of course not,” Stiles replied, heart sinking just a little. But he knew he could make Jackson come around eventually, and he didn’t want to push him too hard and scare him off.

Jackson nodded. “Okay,” he said. Then after a moment of chewing his lip he asked, “Can I kiss you?”

And Stiles broke into a wide grin, nodding and leaning in to finally press his lips against Jackson’s, something he had never gotten to do before.  He let his eyes flutter shut as Jackson’s arms wrapped around his middle, tentatively at first, and then squeezing harder like he never wanted to let go. And Stiles would be totally okay if he never did.

 


End file.
